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My daughter died today. My firstborn. The child that forever changed my life for the better. At 6:56 pm on Friday, July 17th, 2015, I laid in a hospital bed with my daughter Myesha Raven-Symone, wrapped her in my arms just like the day she was born, said my goodbyes with her sister Chloe, and I gave her back to God. Today marks 7 years since I endured what would inevitably be the worst day of my life.

Grief is a funny thing. On the days when I feel the saddest, a part of me wants it to go away, except I don’t want it to go away. Makes zero sense, right? Let me explain. If we aren’t sad, then does that mean we don’t care anymore? That we don’t miss them? That we’ve sub come to just moving on? Those are horrible things to think, or even say out loud. So naturally, we feel conflicted about how we should feel, act, and live now that our child is gone. So on days like today, I just need to be. I don’t want to get out of bed. (I’m literally laying in bed as I type this). I don’t want to plan anything special. (That brings a lot of guilt). I just want to sit in the silence of my room and BE. (So here I am).

Just recently Chloe turned 21. The first milestone in life that I didn’t get to experience with my oldest child, but with my middle child. It was at this moment that I realized this will now be the first of many that I will share with Chloe now, not her. At times it seems surreal. As I watched Chloe celebrate, I couldn’t help to wonder and think of how Myesha would have celebrated. How she would have helped Chloe plan for hers. A part of me felt cheated. Another part of me felt a great deal of pain because I felt like Chloe was cheated too. As I watch my children grow and life continues to move forward, I now realize that sharing how Myesha handled certain situations in her life at their age will diminish. Corban will only get 4 more years of these, “What would Myesha do” moments, and he too will have outgrown his oldest sister.

Over this last year, I have had to learn that moving forward doesn’t mean I have to forget Myesha, because that will never happen. Accepting is not the same as forgetting. The memories I have with her have become more of a defining source of who I am as a person in all aspects of my life. I have had to adjust my life to live around my grief, yet never lose my grief. Instead of my heartache and pain diminishing, I realize it has always remained the same as the day she died. But as time goes by, my life is slowly growing around it. It’s learning to live without her differently.

The best way I can describe it is from an experience we did in science class as a child. You take a coffee filter and a black Sharpe marker. Now draw a dark circle in the middle of the filter. That dark circle is your GRIEF. You can make it as big or as dark as you want because grief is different for everyone. Now add a few drops of water right on top of your grief circle. These are your TEARS. After a while, an array of colors starts to spread from the dark circle. This is LIFE. You will inevitably add more “tears” to your “grief” but somehow the color, “LIFE”, still spreads and grows.

Do you get it now? Grief no longer dominates the circle because life is growing around it, but it’s always going to be there. I am learning that this is normal. My new sense of normal. Finding my rainbow of hope, my sunflower of life, after the storm.

Mommy loves you so much Myesha. I’m sorry the doctors we trusted failed you. I will always live with the guilt as your mother that I failed you too, that will never change. I have worked and will continue to work through blood, sweat, and tears to give Chloe and Corban the life you never got to have. Even when I feel like giving up, you are the source of my strength, I thank you for that. And even on the days when I am happy, just know I have not forgotten about you. These are the days I often wish the most that you were here to enjoy them with me…… By the way…. You would have FREAKIN LOVED TikTok!!

Happy Birthday To You.

Happy Birthday To You.

Happy Heavenly Birthday Myesha

Happy Birthday To You!!

Myesha would have turned 25 today! 25! That just seems crazy to think about sometimes that I am the mother of a 25-year-old. Damn, I’m getting old…ha.

She always said, “It’s My Birthday”! But the way she said it was like no other! It was like a toddler who sings their sentences is really the only way I can describe it. We all got this from our cousin Dawn, who just always has this special way of “singing” it. We all do it now and I can hear Myesha saying it as I write this. It brings tears to my eyes because I long to hear her say it today.

I have come to the point this year where I find it hard to try and set up special events for friends and family to honor her and her day. It’s not that I don’t want to. But it’s just hard. Hard in an unexplainable way. So to those who have reached out, I just ask for your understanding.

This year for the first time since Myesha died, I have nothing planned except an intimate dinner with Chloe and Corban. A certain part of me feels a level of guiltiness. Then another part of me feels a sense of relief. My children asked me the other day, “How long will we keep celebrating Myesha’s birthday?” It was at that very moment, I realized that as much as they have adjusted to our new life without their sister, they too are feeling the same emotions I am. So to minimize all the gut-wrenching emotions that every single holiday brings without Myesha with us, keeping things simple seems like the best thing for us right now. As our grief changes, this too may change, but this year just feels different in an unexplainable way.

The loss of a child is like walking in a maze with no outlet. As parents we find ourselves looking for answers and ways to stop the pain. Ways to cope. Ways to not feel sad. To feel “normal” again. To enjoy the happy days and then not feel guilty for that happiness. It’s never-ending. Grief is very personal and the journey is full of emotional learning as we carefully maneuver through a new sense of normal.

But I can assure you that in my experience, the death of a child is the single worst pain a parent can ever go through. When we lose a child, we are not just losing the child we loved with all our heart, but we are also losing the years of promise we looked forward to. The unwritten script has flipped. I personally feel the older the child is, the harder it is. There are definite markers on the age at which we lose our child that complicates the grief. The age is important because it speaks to the future we as parents no longer get to experience. When a young child or young adult dies, the future of their lives dies with them. The graduations, the grandbabies, the marriages — that’s all lost, too. We spend years nurturing them into adults, aspiring them for greatness. The reward comes as they mature into adults and all the hard work, guidance, and nurturing start reaping the rewards.

Myesha was truly blessed to have had so many amazing influencers in her life. The ones I am the most grateful for as a single mother is my mother, her grandma Clara, my dearest and closest friends, and her God-parent’s Sharon and Bobbi Jo. They were always there for Myesha, and me, in our time of need. I will always be grateful for all they did for her. Sometimes a Mother’s love is just not enough. It truly does take a village when raising children. So to be surrounded by those who step up and instill the same vision and goals are priceless. Today I want to say “Thank You” from the bottom of my heart for being there for Myesha in her 18 years of life and continuing to be there for Chloe, Corban, and myself.

There is a misconception among some that holding on to our grief of our children after they have passed keeps us stuck. But the truth is, continuing to honor, love, and recognize them despite their physical absence is good. Your child’s birthday, no matter how many years they spent on earth, was set aside as a day to honor and celebrate them, even though they aren’t here now. August 31st still, and always will, belong to Myesha. My agonizing pain of missing her on this day will always be magnified, but I refuse to let Myesha’s birthday be met with dread instead of celebration.

So with all that being said, I am asking all of Myesha’s friends, my friends, our family, and anyone who was lucky enough to know Myesha, to help us celebrate by bringing Myesha a present today. The best present you can ever give someone is a PRESENT OF PRESENCE. So, please take a few moments out of your day today to share with us, in a comment below, a memory of Myesha that brings joy to your heart. A memory that makes you laugh in true Myesha style. Because I’ll tell you what, Myesha had the most UNFORGETTABLE LAUGH EVER! She had the kind of laugh, that if you knew her, you could be in a crowd of people and know instantly that that it was Myesha laughing. It was the kind of laugh that instantly made you chuckle or laugh without even knowing what the hell you were laughing about. Yes, “Myesha’s Laugh” should be found in the dictionary under the word, “INFECTIOUS”!

Mommy misses you so much Myesha! Our lives will never be the same without you! You impacted so many people in so many ways. I know today you are shedding just as many tears as I am because you can’t be with us today and you always hated to see me sad! But I know in my heart of hearts that we will be together again someday. I look forward to holding you in my arms someday in Heaven and never letting you go…ever again!

Forever In My Heart!

Mommy Loves You Myesha! Happy 25th Birthday!

My daughter died today. My first born. The child that forever changed my life for the better. At 6:56 pm on Friday, July 17th, 2015, I laid in a hospital bed with my daughter Myesha Raven-Symone, wrapped her in my arms just like the day she was born, said my goodbyes with her sister Chloe, and I gave her back to God. Today marks 6 years since I endured what would inevitably be the worst day of my life.

Every year we usually plan some type of commemorative event. But this year the stars aligned us to jump on a flight to San Antonio for the annual HOTWORX convention that starts Monday. So, to wake up today and not be allowed to just be. To be able to just lay in bed and reflect. Reflect on where we are in our lives and where Myesha would fit in, in this world we now live in. I’ve changed. My kids have changed. It’s just us 3 now. The “mother hen” role was thrown at the middle child and the role of being the baby, advanced swiftly into a level of responsibility that most kids don’t have to endure. I carry the guilt as a parent knowing that it takes all of us working together in order to keep our family dynamic functioning in the survival mode that we are constantly working through on a daily basis. We are far from normal. But as much as normal sounds enticing, it’s not the norm for us. We have endured. It’s a daily battle sometimes. Chloe has definitely been my rock through our grief. I am blessed and amazed with her level of maturity throughout the years.

I remember when Myesha was a toddler, I had this horrible dream that she got a hold of a sharp knife and cut her hand off. I woke up to find her sitting on the floor in a pool of her own blood. Knife lying next to her and this blank look on her face. A look of shock. I woke up and ran into her room to find her safely sleeping in her bed. Heart racing still I went to the kitchen and grabbed EVERY sharp knife and put them in a storage container and placed them in the cabinet on the top shelf, out of her reach. To the day, I still keep knives in that same container, in the cabinet, on a high shelf.

Then as Myesha got older and kids became more socially aware of their differences, she was picked on often for being the “big girl”. I did everything I could as a mother to not allow her to let the cruel words of others to dictate who she was and could be.

At the age of 16, Myesha lost her father from a sudden massive heart attack. That was the first day she had to be an adult. The day she had to help plan a funeral for a man that would never see her graduate, get married, have children. She lost so much that day. It changed her. Not even 2 years later the roles reversed, and I had to plan a funeral for Myesha. A child I would never see get married or birth me, what I expected to be my first grandchild.

Here we are 6 years later, and it is more apparent now more than ever that no matter what we do to protect our children, in the end, we truly don’t have control. This is a hard pill to swallow for parents like myself who are overprotective.

When my daughter died, I received a lot of advice. I found people do not know what to say. The advice came from good intentions, but it was hollow. Not at all what I needed in that moment. When someone would tell me it would be OK, I was angry. They would say everything happens for a reason and I should trust God. More anger. Then there was, “Give it time. Time heals all wounds.” It doesn’t. Everything felt like pressure towards a direction someone else thought was best for me.

If you haven’t noticed, there is a lot of anger in grief. It is unavoidable so you should just learn to embrace it early. It made me feel like I was going crazy. Everything made me mad. I hated advice, yet I found myself starting to wonder if I should listen. It didn’t resonate, but I was desperate. So, I started judging my grief. It made me question everything I was doing and feel as if I was doing it all wrong. That made me angrier.

Then I had a breakthrough. A grief breakthrough. I realized that my grief is only about me. The journey I walk is my own. No one can tell me how to do it. I simply have to do whatever I feel is right in the moment for me. It is not my job to help make others feel better. I cannot be concerned for how they are doing. I know it sounds harsh and unfeeling. However, there is an “I” in grief. As there should be! It is the only way because MY daughter died! This was about Myesha and I. No one else.

It seemed so simple. Selfish, but simple.

Since my daughter died, I have changed the way I talk to someone that has experienced loss. I tell them I am thinking about them and sending love. I really am. I feel their pain as if it was my own. If I feel the urge to share advice, I simply tell them their grief is unique to them. They have to do whatever is right for them and not compare themselves to anyone else. Don’t worry about what anyone else tells you. Just follow your gut.

Grief has no expiration date. It never fully goes away. It doesn’t mean we will never be happy again; it just means that we will always have a wound on our hearts. Living with grief is a way of remembering and honoring that person. It is not to be dreaded but embraced. There will always be days that are harder than others. Hell, there are still days I feel like quitting. But there is this tiny voice inside of me, that is not my own, that is not like any I have ever heard before, that reminds me that my life is not over, and my journey is not yet finished.

What I can take away from all of my experiences at this point is that love has no expiration date.

Mommy loves you Myesha. To the Moon and Back Again. Forever In My Heart Friday. FIMHF

*I dedicate this to every mother who lives without her precious children, to every mother who has no living children, and to every woman who longs to be a mother. We see you. We remember you. We honor your motherhood. You are a beautiful, beautiful mother.

I love being a mother. But I am the mother of a child that has died and that makes Mother’s Day very hard. It’s a day we struggle with for those of us who have lost a child. Other days of the year I find I can make it a few hours without thinking about my loss. Other days of the year I can pretend that I am an ordinary person and that life is normal, but not on Mother’s Day. Mother’s Day is that “slap in the face” reality that my oldest child, my firstborn is gone. I have slowly come to terms that I will never feel complete without her.

This year will be my fifth Mother’s Day without Myesha. It’s been 2,122 days since I heard Myesha’s voice from her lips. 2,122 days since I ran my fingers through her hair and curled up next to her in the hospital bed once last time. 2,122 days since I laid my head on her chest and took in as many deep breaths as possible because this would be the last time I would smell her scent. 2,122 days since death became something very real to me. 2,122 days since the machines slowly flat-lined, a squealing and impeccable sound that will forever haunt me……

Until now I have never put into words publicly, on paper just how my daughter died. Like the details leading up to it. While I am restricted to a point in how much I can say, I feel obligated to share as much as I can during these racially radical times we are now living in. My child died because she was black, bi-racial, however one chooses to categorize her race. On medical records, Myesha died due to an infection she received in the operating room during a basic ankle surgery. A surgery we were able to put off for years so that she could get through high school and not have to worry about recovery time until the summer. I often think back and wonder what I could have done differently. I blame myself for not getting second opinions. For not using my motherly instincts and trusting a doctor who I thought had my daughter’s best interest in mind. I think back to that doctor holding me as I was sobbing in the hallway of that hospital as my child was slowly dying. Only to later discover, it had been noted in her medical charts, “black girl trying to get high”, due to the fact she was in so much pain she was eating her pain pills like candy and was still in agonizing pain, unknowing she had an infection. For the record, the autopsy showed my child had ZERO drugs in her system besides pain meds at the time of death. Myesha was in constant pain. The doctor often became frustrated and quite agitated at our constant calls expressing our concern. His response, “You knew this was going to be a tough recovery.” I often go back and read her text messages that I still have locked in my phone. I still have the sweet tea she never got a chance to finish in the door of my refrigerator because even after almost 6 years I can’t bear to throw it away. Honestly, I probably never will. I hate that man. I will never be the bigger person and forgive him. The condolence card that he sent me after her death was nothing more than a sweep of the feet when I later read her medical records from his office. It was the one piece of evidence I told my attorney I didn’t want back.

But in 2015, I didn’t have the news crews camped out in my driveway with cameras. I didn’t have nationwide publicity showing up on social media pages. Civil rights leaders like the Rev. Al Sharpton, did not eulogize my daughter’s funeral. I did that, I read her eulogy. I didn’t need all that. Honestly, I don’t know if I would have wanted all that. It was hard enough as it was to deal with at that very moment. We were all grief-stricken and in shock. But what I did have, was a profound amount of love and support from my friends and family, from here locally to across the world, reaching out and sending their love, support, and condolences. That for me, and my family, was more than enough. I thank each and every one of you for that from the bottom of my heart!

What this has done is made my family more aware of the times we are living in and sympathetic to every mother who has lost a child. What hits home is the grief. That is the one factor we feel we can relate to the most. The raw emotions of pain and suffering are made more relevant on every holiday we must endure and spend without them.

So when you lose a child, the one thing that never changes is the way your world will forever be changed. Mother’s Day is just one of many days that make that loss feel even more profound. It’s hard in the days coming to not feel angry, cheated, heartbroken, and then I worry that I won’t be there fully for Chloe, Corban, and my Mother, the way I should be. They still deserve to have ME. Their Mother. Her Daughter. But whether it’s the first, or now the fifth, a part of my heart will always belong to Myesha. This part used to be shared, but now no longer because she is not here to share her presence with us. So I am left with no choice but to chip away this part of my soul and dedicate it solely to her because that’s all I can do to survive. The truth is, it still hurts. It will always hurt.

My love as a mother will never change. I will love Myesha the same on Mother’s Day as I do on any other day. I will continue to miss her just as much. I will miss my breakfast in bed that she always made me. I will miss the way she would rally her sister and brother’s together to make sure the house was cleaned, and I didn’t have to lift a finger. I will treasure all the Mother’s Day gifts that I have from when she was just a little girl in school. I will pull these memories close to my heart and keep trying my hardest not to forget any of them. I will tell everyone how thankful I was to be Myesha’s mom for 18 years. I will continue to hold her close to me even through death.

I am a mother. My grief is real….

Mommy LOVES YOU Myesha Raven-Symone Reed

24. That’s how old Myesha would be today. It’s hard to not imagine where she would be in life right now if she were still alive. At 24 I was the mom of this beautiful little girl. Myesha was only 3 years old and I was a single mom trying to find my way in the world. Holding down a full-time job and going to college at nights to get my degree.

24 is a beautiful time in your life where you’re finally an adult and there’s no denying it. This isn’t 20 when you’re barely legal, or 21 when you just learned what Cabernet was. It’s not 22 when you got your dream job, or what you thought was your dream job. It’s freakin’ 24, the age where you did all of the above and more.

24. Where you begin phrases with “I’m too old to be…” as a reason to stop yourself from doing things you don’t want to do. 20-23 was like your “twenties-training,” 24 makes you feel like you’re almost 25, which means you’re almost 30, which means you’ll soon be saying the phrase, “Holy crap, I’m old!”

24. Where maybe you splurge on buying yourself more gadgets than you ever have, because you’re 24 and you feel like a grown ass adult. Want that iPhone 11? Put it on your credit card (while cringing), and just keep telling yourself, “I’ll find a way to pay for it!”

24. Where you are probably constantly contemplating deleting one or all social media accounts at least once a month, because you’re 24 so why the hell do you care about how many likes, or comments you got? But you’ll suffer from FOMO, so you decide to keep them all instead, and keep complaining.

24. Where you wonder how your mom had you around your current age and wonder how in the hell she did it.

19. 20. 21. 22. 23. 24….. I have been robbed as a mother to not be able to share in the joys, triumphs, tears and laughter of the beginning phases of “adulting” with my daughter.

So this year for her 24th birthday we celebrate for her. We take a shot, chase it with Coke, and sing “Happy Birthday” with our loved ones. Because that’s what Myesha would do at 24. Because hell, “I’m 24 and I can do that!” (In true Myesha tone of voice..lol)

Happy 24th Birthday Myesha. Mommy loves you. FIMHF

My daughter died today. My firstborn. The child that forever changed my life for the better. At 6:56 pm on Friday, July 17th, 2015, I laid in a hospital bed with my daughter Myesha Raven-Symone, wrapped her in my arms just like the day she was born, said my goodbyes with her sister Chloe, and I gave her back to God. Today marks five years since I endured what would inevitably be the worst day of my life.

Five years! I don’t even understand how I have survived five years without her. From the moment I woke up today, I just feel numb. Like completed baffled that five years have gone by.

I have often wondered how she would have endured during such a crazy time in our society right now. Would she be done with nursing school by now and be one of the essential workers saving lives? Would she have had a child yet? The constant “What would Myesha do?” thoughts run through my head.

The grief of losing a child really does last a lifetime. Today I just felt numb. I have yet to cry. I have yet to feel. I just don’t know what I should be doing or saying at this point that I haven’t already done or said.

But I leave you with this….

1). Love never dies.

There will never come a day, hour, minute, or second I stop loving or thinking about my daughter. Just as parents of living children unconditionally love their children always and forever, so do bereaved parents. I want to say and hear her name just the same as non-bereaved parents do. I want to speak about my deceased child as normally and naturally as you speak of your living ones. I love my child just as much as you love yours– the only difference is mine lives in heaven and talking about her is unfortunately quite taboo in our culture. I hope to change that. Our culture isn’t so great about hearing about children gone too soon, but that doesn’t stop me from saying my daughter’s name and sharing her love and light everywhere I go. Just because it might make you uncomfortable, doesn’t make her matter any less. My daughter’s life was cut irreversibly short, but her love lives on forever. And ever.

2). Bereaved parents share an unspeakable bond.

In my five years navigating the world as a bereaved parent, I am continually struck by the power of the bond between bereaved parents. Strangers become kindreds in mere seconds– a look, a glance, a knowing of the heart connects us, even if we’ve never met before. No matter our circumstances, who we are, or how different we are, there is no greater bond than the connection between parents who understand the agony of enduring the death of a child. It’s a pain we suffer for a lifetime, and unfortunately, only those who have walked the path of child loss understand the depth and breadth of both the pain and the love we carry. My dear friend Diana, is my person! She gets me at my worst. I believe her son and my daughter found each other in Heaven and brought us to each other in our time of need.

3). I will grieve for a lifetime.

Period. The end. There is no “moving on,” or “getting over it.” There is no bow, no fix, no solution to my heartache. There is no end to the ways I will grieve and for how long I will grieve. There is no glue for my broken heart, no elixir for my pain, no going back in time. For as long as I breathe, I will grieve and ache and love my daughter with all my heart and soul. There will never come a time where I won’t think about who my daughter would be, what she would look like now. I wish people could understand that grief lasts forever because love lasts forever; that the loss of a child is not one finite event, it is a continuous loss that unfolds minute by minute throughout a lifetime. Every missed birthday, holiday, milestones; weddings that will never be; grandchildren that should have been but will never be born– an entire generation of people are irrevocably altered forever.

4). It’s a club I can never leave but is filled with the most shining souls I’ve ever known.

This crappy club called child loss is a club I never wanted to join, and one I can never leave, yet is filled with some of the best people I’ve ever known. And yet we all wish we could jump ship– that we could have met another way– any other way but this. Alas, these shining souls are the most beautiful, compassionate, grounded, loving, movers, shakers, and healers I have ever had the honor of knowing. They are life-changers, game-changers, relentless survivors, and thrivers. Warrior moms and dads who redefine the word brave. Every day loss parents move mountains in honor of their children gone too soon. They start movements, change laws, spearhead crusades of tireless activism. Why? In the hope that even just one parent could be spared from joining the club. If you’ve ever wondered who some of the greatest world changers are, hang out with a few bereaved parents and watch how they live, see what they do in a day, a week, a lifetime. Watch how they alchemize their grief into a force to be reckoned with, watch how they turn tragedy into transformation, loss into legacy. Love is the most powerful force on earth, and the love between a bereaved parent and his/her child is a lifeforce to behold. Get to know a bereaved parent. You’ll be thankful you did.

5). The empty chair/room/space never becomes less empty.

The empty chair, empty room, space in every family picture. Empty, vacant, forever gone for this lifetime. Empty spaces that should be full, everywhere we go. There is and will always be a missing space in our lives, our families, a forever-hole-in-our-hearts. Time does not make the space less empty. Neither do platitudes, clichés, or well-wishes for us to “move on,” nor “stop dwelling,” from well-intentioned friends or family. Nothing does. No matter how you look at it, empty is still empty. Missing is still missing. Gone is still gone. The problem is nothing can fill it. Minute after minute, hour after hour, day after day, month after month, year after heartbreaking year, space remains. The space of my missing child lasts a lifetime. And so we rightfully miss them forever. Help us by holding the space of that truth for us.

6). No matter how long it’s been, holidays never become easier without my Myesha.

Never, ever. Have you ever wondered why every holiday season is like torture for a bereaved parent? Even if it’s been 5, 10, or 25 years later? It’s because they really, truly are. Imagine if you had to live every holiday without one or more of your precious children. Imagine how that might feel for you. It would be easier to lose an arm, a leg or two– anything— than to live without your flesh and blood, without the beat of your heart. Almost anything would be easier than living without one or more of your precious children. That is why holidays are always and forever hard for bereaved parents. Don’t wonder why or even try to understand. Know you don’t have to understand to be a supportive presence. Consider supporting and loving some bereaved parents this holiday season. It will be the best gift you could ever give them.

7). Because I know deep sorrow, I also know unspeakable joy.

Though I will grieve the death of my daughter forever and then some, it does not mean my life is lacking happiness and joy. Quite the contrary though it took a while to get there. It is not either/or, it’s both/and my life is richer now. I live from a deeper place. I love deeper still. Because I grieve I also know a joy like no other. The joy I experience now is far deeper and more intense than the joy I experienced before my loss. Such is the alchemy of grief. Because I’ve clawed my way from the depth of unimaginable pain, suffering, and sorrow, again and again– when the joy comes, however, and whenever it does– it is a joy that reverberates through every pore of my skin and every bone in my body. I feel all of it, deeply: the love, the grief, the joy, the pain. I embrace and thank every morsel of it. My life now is more rich and vibrant and full, not despite my loss, but because of it. In grief, there are gifts, sometimes many. These gifts don’t in any way make it all “worth” it, but I am grateful beyond words for each gift that comes my way. I bow my head to each one and say thank you, thank you, thank you. Because there is nothing– and I mean absolutely nothing– I take for granted. Living life in this way gives me greater joy than I’ve ever known possible. I have my daughter to thank for that. Being her mom is the best gift I’ve ever been given.

Even death can’t take that away. Mommy loves you Myesha! I miss you every day! FIMHF